Page 20 of Once Upon A Second Chance (Once Upon A Time…To Happily Ever After #2)

Chapter Seventeen

Richard

I don’t remember driving home.

One second I’m standing in the break room with Penny, the next I’m walking down the hall of the clinic wondering how I can fix this. Like she might forgive me without me deserving it.

And the next thing I know, my day’s over and I’m back at the motel, sitting on the edge of the bed, my keys still digging half-moon indents into my palm.

The room smells like old coffee and cheap soap. The air conditioner hums in the corner, too loud, too cold. I sit there, hunched forward, elbows on my knees, staring at the threadbare carpet until the pattern starts to blur.

My heart is still pounding like I ran all the way here on foot.

No one.

The word ricochets around inside my skull, brutal and final.

No one.

No one.

No one.

I want to claw the memory out of my head. Want to take it back. Want to rewind the last few hours and say something else, anything else, even if it meant standing there and picking a fight with my mother.

But I didn’t.

Because even now—after everything—I still flinch when it comes to them.

I drop my keys onto the floor with a sharp clatter. My hands shake when I run them over my face.

The worst part—the part that guts me—isn't even that she got mad.

It's that she looked... defeated.

Like in some way she was actually expecting it.

Like some part of her had been holding her breath all along, just waiting for me to prove that I still thought she wasn’t enough.

I lean back on the bed, stare up at the cracked ceiling tiles, and wonder how I became this.

How I became a man who could love someone so much it terrifies him—and still, still let pride and fear make him say exactly the wrong thing at exactly the worst moment.

Memories creep in, uninvited and merciless.

Penny’s laughter yesterday morning in the kitchen, wearing my shirt, hair messy from sleep.

The way she looked at me today when I brought her coffee—like maybe the world wasn’t such a bad place after all.

Her lips on mine, hungry and sure, just before the phone rang.

The way she stiffened when she heard what I said.

The way she let me go.

I scrub a hand through my hair, then stand too fast, pacing the narrow motel room like a caged animal. My reflection in the mirror over the dresser catches me off guard.

I look older. Tired. Hollowed out.

Not the hero from the newspaper article.

Not the man who dove into a river without hesitation.

Just a scared, selfish idiot who may have lost the only thing that ever made him feel like more than a collection of stitched-together mistakes.

I walk to the window, peel back the vintage motel curtain. The parking lot’s empty except for a couple of old pickups and a battered sedan with one headlight out—what we used to call ‘a pididdle’ when I was a kid.

The streetlights buzz against the night sky.

I think about getting in my truck.

I think about driving to her house, banging on her door until she has no choice but to hear me out.

But what would I even say?

That I’m sorry?

That I love her?

That I’m a coward when it counts most, and she deserves someone who isn’t?

I press my forehead against the cold windowpane, my breath fogging the glass.

The world outside keeps spinning. Someone’s TV blares down the hall. Somewhere, a dog barks once, sharp and solitary.

And me?

I’m stuck right here. In this motel room. In my own goddamn skin.

In the wreckage I built with my own two hands.

And for the first time in years—not just since New York, not just since the lawsuit, but years—I realize what real fear feels like.

Not the fear of failure. Not the fear of losing a case, a job, a reputation.

The fear of losing her. The only thing that ever really mattered.

And knowing that this time? This time, it might be too late to get her back.

I don’t turn on the lights.

I just sit back down on the edge of the bed, phone in hand, screen too bright in the dim room.

My thumb hovers over her name in my contacts—Penny Morgan—like it’s some kind of detonator.

I could text her. I should text her.

Just something.

I start typing.

I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. You’re not no one. You’re everything.

I stare at the words for a long time, thumb twitching over the send button.

It’s not enough.

Not even close.

It’s too soon. Too raw. She deserves more than a handful of desperate words vomiting onto a screen because I’m lonely and miserable and can’t sit with what I did.

With a groan, I hit backspace. Watch every letter disappear until the screen is blank again.

I try again.

Can we talk? Please.

Stupid. Pathetic.

I close the text window altogether and lock the phone, tossing it onto the sagging mattress beside me like it burns my skin.

My hands shake in my lap.

I blow out a breath, lean forward, elbows on my knees, and drag both palms down my face until my jaw aches from the pressure.

The silence in the room stretches, thick and suffocating.

Eventually, I pick the phone up again—this time flipping mindlessly through my contacts until I land on my mother’s name.

I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t.

But some part of me still wants to—wants to scream at her, tell her she doesn’t get to own this narrative, doesn’t get to make me ashamed of the best thing I’ve ever had.

I start typing.

I lied. There is someone. There’s Penny Morgan. And I love her.

My fingers hover.

I imagine her response. The clipped disapproval. The casual cruelty.

I imagine my father, silent as always, nodding along. So, I don’t send it. I don’t even save it to drafts.

I just close the message and set the phone face-down on the nightstand.

The screen glows for a second longer—like it’s waiting for me to change my mind—then goes dark.

I lie back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, arms crossed tightly over my chest.

The cheap motel pillow smells faintly of bleach and something sour underneath, but I don’t bother moving.

I don’t bother changing into something more comfortable. I just lie there, staring into the dark, every muscle tense, every thought a wrecking ball.

Time drags.

At some point, the air conditioning kicks on again with a clatter, rattling the thin window. Someone slams a door two rooms down. Tires crunch gravel outside.

But inside my head, it’s nothing but silence and regret and the memory of her voice when she told me to go.

I roll over onto my side, facing the wall.

I tell myself I’ll text her tomorrow.

That I’ll show up. Explain everything. Beg if I have to.

But for now? For tonight? I stay right here.

Trapped.

Lonely.

Restless.

And entirely alone.

The clinic is louder than usual when I walk in—phones ringing, nurses laughing too brightly, patients rustling in their seats like the whole building can’t decide whether it’s a hospital or a social club.

I barely make it through the door before I see her.

Penny.

At the far end of the hallway, clipboard in hand, head down like she’s reading something very important. Too important to notice me.

Except I know she noticed me. She’s been avoiding me all morning. No casual hellos, no eye contact. When she passes me at the nurses’ station, it’s like there’s an invisible barrier she won’t cross.

She doesn’t even glance my way.

I deserve it. God, I deserve worse. But knowing that doesn’t make it easier to stomach.

I push through my rounds, reviewing x-rays, updating post-op charts, pretending I’m not counting the minutes until I get five damn seconds to talk to her properly.

No such luck.

By midmorning, it’s clear Penny’s made an art form of dodging me.

She disappears into patient rooms the second I enter the hallway, retreats behind supply cabinets, buries herself in paperwork. She’s faster than half the running backs I treated last season.

I’m filling out a referral request at the front desk when Lena slides up beside me, her presence as subtle as a sledgehammer.

"You and Penny having a lover's spat, Doctor?" she asks, voice low but unmistakably sharp.

I don’t look up. "Something like that."

Lena leans on the counter like she has all day. "You planning on fixing it, or are we going to start a betting pool on how long it takes before she finally murders you and hides the body in the supply closet?"

I glance at her then, and her eyebrows lift meaningfully.

"She’s angry," I say, trying to keep my voice even.

"Yeah," Lena agrees easily. "And hurt. And about five minutes away from pretending indefinitely that you don't exist unless you find a way to pull your head out of your ass."

I press the pen harder into the paper than necessary. "That’s enough, Lena. I'm trying."

"Not hard enough," Lena mutters. Then, louder, with a blindingly fake smile: "Good luck, Doc."

She leaves before I can argue.

For a minute, I just stand there, feeling every ounce of frustration build up again. But Lena’s not wrong. If I don’t try—really try—I’ll lose her for good.

The break room is half-lit when I push the door open twenty minutes later.

Penny’s inside, standing by the coffee machine, fiddling with a sugar packet like it's done her personal harm. She stiffens when she hears me but doesn’t turn around.

I step inside, keeping my distance.

“Penny,” I start, voice low, careful. “Can we talk?”

She doesn’t answer, just tears the sugar packet neatly in half and pours it into her coffee with methodical precision.

I take a step closer. "Please."

Finally, she turns, coffee cup clutched to her chest like armor. Her face is unreadable—professional, cool, nothing like the woman who kissed me like I was the last good thing in the world three days ago.

"I’m working," she says quietly. "This isn’t the time."

"I know. I just... I need you to know I'm sorry. For everything. For the call, for what I said, for how I made you feel. You didn’t deserve any of it."

Her eyes flicker, but she doesn’t soften. Not yet.

Before I can say anything else, the door swings open and Nurse Patel walks in, holding a folder and oblivious to the tension thick enough to chew.

"Hey, can one of you sign off on Mrs. Templeton’s PT plan?" she asks, glancing between us.

Penny straightens immediately, slipping past me without so much as brushing my sleeve. "I’ll handle it."

She brushes by Patel, already pulling her professional mask back into place, and leaves the room like I’m no one at all.

And for the second time in three days, I stand there feeling like I just lost something I might not know how to get back.

Another day passes with Penny barely acknowledging me.

She moves through the clinic like a ghost—always two steps ahead, always just out of reach.

We pass each other in the halls, brush past each other in break rooms and at the nurses' station, and every time, the distance between us grows a little wider, a little colder.

I don’t know how much longer I can take it.

But today, I don’t even get the chance to try.

Because today is the day my parents arrive.

Their inn of choice is the Mount Juliet Garden Lodge, the "fanciest" place in town, which is to say it has fresh muffins in the lobby and a pond out back that may or may not be stocked with koi.

I pull into the parking lot just past noon, stomach already tight with dread, and spot their sleek rental car before I even make it to the door.

Inside, my mother’s perched stiffly in one of the lobby’s floral armchairs, a designer scarf draped artfully over her shoulders.

My father stands beside her, checking his watch like he’s timing how long he has to endure rural America before catching the next flight home.

"Richard," my mother says, rising to kiss my cheek without actually touching me. "You look... well."

"Thanks," I mutter, forcing a smile.

"You've lost weight," she says immediately, scanning me with clinical precision.

"You always say that," I reply, a little sharper than necessary.

My father claps me on the shoulder—once, twice, quick and impersonal. "Good to see you, son."

"You too, Dad."

We exchange a few minutes of polite small talk about the flight, the weather, the lack of decent coffee shops nearby. Every word feels like it’s scraping against my nerves.

"This town is... charming," my mother says finally, glancing around the lobby as if she's worried about catching something. "But it’s such a far cry from New York. I can’t imagine there’s much professional opportunity here."

I bite down on my first instinctive response. "It's a different pace, sure."

"You’re wasting your talent," she says, waving one manicured hand. "You should be running a department. Teaching. Publishing. Not patching up tractor injuries."

My jaw ticks, but I stay silent.

For now.

We move to the tiny hotel café—which is really just a few tables and a coffee counter—and sit awkwardly around a rickety wooden table.

I order a black coffee I don’t want just to keep my hands busy.

Eventually, inevitably, my mother steers the conversation exactly where I knew she would.

"And personally?" she says, stirring her tea delicately. "I think being here must feel quite lonely. No stimulation. No suitable company. I assume there’s been no... romantic developments?"

Her voice is light, casual, but I know her too well. The trap is already set.

For a beat, I hesitate.

Old instinct tightens my throat. Old fear, old shame, old habits.

But then I remember Penny’s face when I said "no one."I remember the look in her eyes when she opened the door and told me to go.

And I refuse to do it again.

"No," I say, voice hardening. "There has been a romantic development."

Both of them freeze.

"I’m with Penny Morgan," I continue, steady and clear. "Again. And this time... I am more in love with her than ever."

My mother’s smile falters, and something cold flashes through her eyes. "Richard—"

"I don't want to hear it," I cut her off. "I’m not interested in your opinion. I’m not interested in your approval."

My father clears his throat awkwardly, but my mother leans in, voice sharpening. "You could have anyone. You’re choosing... her? After everything?"

I push back my chair so hard it scrapes across the floor. Half the tiny café turns to look.

"Yeah," I say. "I’m choosing her. I’ll always choose her."

And without waiting for a response, without giving them the chance to spit more poison into something good, I turn and walk out.

I’m halfway to my truck before the adrenaline hits.

My hands are shaking as I pull the keys from my pocket, but it’s not fear anymore. It’s clarity. It’s something real, burning hot and bright under my skin.

I don’t even hesitate.

I start the engine and head for Penny’s house.